


A Place In The Sun

by Arhel



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-28
Updated: 2006-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:52:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arhel/pseuds/Arhel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of Cheegles and paperwork. Post-game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place In The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> _Characters belong to Bandai-Namco. Translations may be a little fuzzy because I've never played the English version._

Cheegles weren't supposed to write, but in the three years he'd kept the diary, Mieu had gotten used to it. It was all a matter of finding the right way to balance the giant pen in his paws. He still wrote slowly, and his penmanship consisted of the carefully rounded loops and precise lettering of a child, but that was okay because at least it matched the rest of the book.

The charts he copied for Jade were something else entirely. The graceful sweeps and curls of the glyphs that danced across the pages to mark rhythm, pitch, and cadence came naturally to him; sometimes without even prompting he could connect one graph to another. And Mieu remembered a story about Cheegles and fonims, and an oracle named Julia.

It was much easier now that he had an assistant.

"Star" was a human-given name, but she had wanted to keep it. It was really the only thing remarkable about her, and for all their poking and prodding the human scientists could never find anything even slightly out of the ordinary. If only it was so simple for humans.

The doors to the fone Fabre residence were always open now, saving Mieu the trouble of having to find a convenient window. There was an energy and busyness about the place that had never been apparent in the days before everything fell apart and then came back together again. The cheegle found that he had to actually pay attention to dodge the feet of bustling clerks and officiates, so wrapped up in their business that contact with a cheegle-sized object would only register as an unintentional punt. Mieu weaved between them, down the hall and past the kitchen from which wafted the scent of curry. Chicken curry, of course. Mieu wondered if it was something hereditary.

Mieu's master was at his desk, buried in paperwork in the room specially commissioned as his study since his return. It was the highest room in the estate, a circular affair with enormous glass windows that had been left curtain-less at Luke's request, and overlooked the sun-drenched courtyard below.

The lazy afternoon light swept through the high windows, casting long shadows on the floor and illuminating dust motes in the air. An inch-thick layer of charts and maps was spread untidily over the desk that occupied the middle of the room, stained inkwell and cup of coffee acting as impromptu paperweights. Bent over the table was Luke, a vision of scholarly intent in russet and liquid gold. Or would be, were it not for the gentle snores and the fact that a conveniently propped elbow was the only thing keeping the esteemed visage of the hero of Kimuelasca from hitting the desk. A dribble of ink leaked from the tip of the pen still gripped loosely in one hand, soaking into the paper of the blank page on top of the pile. The inkpot and cup were on his left.

Carefully, Mieu nudged his master's hand.

Luke blinked bleary eyes at the cheegle and yawned lazily. Mieu simply stepped back and let the man take his time. The faraway look that had haunted his expression every time he woke up had faded from Luke in the weeks since his return, but Mieu had grown accustomed to giving his master space. "Tact", was what the elders called it. Proof that he was growing up.

"Mieu! You're back!"

Mieu squeaked a greeting, and looked askance at the pile of paperwork decorating Luke's desk, natural curiosity overcoming any semblance of manners.

"Oh, that. Um." Luke blushed, a sheepish grin starting to spread. "There's going to be a revision of the trade laws governing the pricing of foodstuffs from Engave tomorrow. But there are precedents that have to be respected by the articles of the Treaty of- of-" He trailed off, staring down at the blank page with its dribble of ink, and looked momentarily guilty. "Of whatever it is that I'm supposed to read."

And maybe some things didn't really change, after all.

"Is, um, is Jade doing okay?" Even after the weeks of court functions, meetings, and bureaucratic planning, Mieu's master had never gotten the hang of the tact thing himself.

"Jade says that everything's almost ready. But Master shouldn't abandon his responsibilities," added Mieu, as he remembered belatedly that the Colonel had given very precise instructions as to the delivery of the papers. They were punctuated with a most polite, gentle smile that promised unthinkably terrible retribution to the foolish knave unwise enough to disregard his advice. Too late.

As he scanned down the sheaf of notes that Mieu had so carefully copied, Luke's face softened into an open, toothy grin. "That's the best thing I've heard all day. I can't take much more of this." Placing the notes into a drawer in the side of his desk, Luke stared wistfully out the windows as a breeze rustled the trees outside. "It's so nice out. Maybe I could---"

Suddenly he stopped in mid-sentence. And winced.

Mieu turned to look up into a face that was turning the color of ripe tomatoes and the type of expression worn by someone being beaten viciously over the head with a feather pillow – not hard enough to do real damage, but still enough to feel the impact. His eyes were slightly unfocused, looking at Mieu but not really seeing the cheegle.

Mieu had gotten used to that, too.

He waved a paw at the immobile hero and squeaked a "later". Leaving his master to gaze blankly down at the courtyard, Mieu floated down off the desk and made for his favorite spot in the hydrangea garden. After several bouts of trial and error and some enthusiastic shaking, he knew by now that sometimes his master just needed time alone. For certain definitions of "alone".

Several minutes later, Luke fone Fabre went back to work. The blank page filled with meticulous notes in a bold scrawl of the type that was only legible to the writer, and the coffee was demolished with ruthless efficiency. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
